The curate did not return till after she had gone to bed, and in the morning he proved to be indeed a very dry and serious middle-aged man, extremely silent, and so grave that there was no knowing how much to allow for shyness.  He looked much worn and had a wearied voice, and Mr. Clare and Alick were contriving all they could to give him the rest which he refused, Mr. Clare insisting on taking all the service that could be performed without eyes, and Alick volunteering school-work.  This Rachel was not yet able to undertake, nor would Alick even let her go to church in the morning; but the shady garden, and the echoes of the Amens, and sweet, clear tones of singing, seemed to lull her on in this same gentle, unthinking state of dreamy rest; and thence, too, in the after part of the day, she could watch the rector, with his Sunday class, on his favourite seat under the yew-tree, close to the cross that marked the resting-place of his wife and child.

She went to church in the evening, sheltered from curious eyes in her nook, and there for a moment she heard the peculiar brush and sweep of rich silk upon pavement, and wondered at so sophisticated a sound in the little homely congregation, but forgot it again in the exulting, joyous beauty of the chants and hymns, led by the rector himself, and, oh, how different from poor Mr. Touchett’s best efforts! and forgot it still more in the unfettered eloquence of the preaching of a man of great natural power, and entirely accustomed to trust to his own inward stores.  Like Ermine Williams, she could have said that this preaching was the first that won her attention.  It certainly was the first that swept away all her spirit of criticising, and left her touched and impressed, not judging.  On what north country folk call the loosing of the kirk, she, moving outwards after the throng, found herself close behind a gauzy white cloak over a lilac silk, that filled the whole breadth of the central aisle, and by the dark curl descending beneath the tiny white bonnet, as well as by the turn of the graceful head, she knew her sister-in-law, Lady Keith, of Gowanbrae.  In the porch she was met with outstretched hands and eager greetings—­

“At last!  Where did you hide yourself?  I had begun to imagine dire mischances.”

“Only in the corner by the chancel.”

“Alick’s old nook!  Keeping up honeymoon privileges!  I have kept your secret faithfully.  No one knows you are not on the top of Snowdon, or you would have had all the world to call on you.”

“There are always the Earlsworthy woods,” said Alick.

“Or better still, come to Timber End.  No one penetrates to my morning room,” laughed Bessie.

“Now, Uncle George,” she said, as the rector appeared, “you have had a full allowance of them for three days, you must spare them to me to-morrow morning.”

“So it is you, my lady,” he answered, with a pleased smile; “I heard a sort of hail-storm of dignity sailing in!  How is Lord Keith?”